


Besieged by one more than five

by Ki_ru



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Homophobia, Hugs, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Mild Smut, Pranks and Practical Jokes, there's a lot and I'm not gonna tag it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 21:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14197809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: Collection of 17 shorter oneshots with a multitude of pairings, topics and ratings! All indexed and listed at the top for your reading convenience.





	Besieged by one more than five

**Author's Note:**

> Most of these were requests - if you'd like to make one yourself, please read through [my guidelines](http://kiruuuuu.tumblr.com/post/171896079889/though-snippet-requests-are-open-please-take-a) and leave a comment here or on [my tumblr](http://kiruuuuu.tumblr.com/)!  
> If you'd like to skip to a certain oneshot, use ctrl + f and the index :) Please enjoy!

**1.1** During a sleepless night, Montagne and Blitz keep each other company. (Montagne/Blitz, emotional comfort, G)

**1.2** Jäger leaves Bandit behind when he leaves for Truth or Consequences. (Bandit/Jäger, feels, M)

**1.3** Bandit cheers Jäger up the only way he knows how. (Bandit/Jäger, fluff, G)

**1.4** Buck attempts to cook for Glaz. (Buck/Glaz, fluff, T)

**1.5** How in the world did this even happen. (Tachanka/Capitão, what, T)

**1.6** Jäger got beaten up and Fuze rescued him. (Fuze/Jäger, feels, G)

**1.7** This is not how Jäger pictured hand to hand combat training. (Tachanka/Jäger, humour/vaguely smutty, M)

**1.8** Bandit is stuck with a lovey-dovey couple and hates it. (Blitz/Rook, humour/fluff, G)

**1.9** Montagne likes rain, even if it makes him wistful. (Tachanka/Montagne, feels, T)

**2.1** Doc is there to catch Bandit when he falls. (Bandit/Doc, angst, M)

**2.2** Bandit is drunk and Doc is tired of dancing around the topic. (Bandit/Doc, humour/fluff, T)

**2.3** Dokkaebi sends a nude and it’s not her own. Obviously. (Lesion/Echo, humour/fluff, T)

**2.4** Jäger wants to cuddle and Bandit really, _really_ doesn’t want to. (Bandit/Jäger, fluff/slightly smutty, M)

**2.5** Montagne isn’t homophobic. He’s _sure_ of it. (Montagne/Rook, slightly smutty, M)

**2.6** Thatcher is bad with technology. (Thatcher/Jäger, humour, T)

**2.7** Glaz paints and Kapkan asks him to teach him to draw. (Kapkan/Glaz, fluff, G)

**2.8** Bandit and Glaz get punished. (Bandit/Glaz, feels, G)

  
  


**1.1** Montagne/Blitz

 

“Would you mind some company?”

The dark-haired man looks up, calmly returns Blitz’ uncertain gaze and indicates the empty space next to him invitingly, so the German takes a seat on the old bench, the wood feeling slightly damp in the cool night air though not unpleasantly so. Their arms and thighs brush and Blitz considers moving away a little but chooses not to. The atmosphere is vaguely surreal, as if reality was altered, it’s like being drunk without the buzz, like a vivid dream that tries its best to recreate the world accurately. Late hours tend to feel like this to Blitz, worse when it’s raining or snowing, even worse when he’s wandering around on his own.

Tonight, it seems he’s not the only one being kept up by one thing or another. It’s not rare to encounter other colleagues on his nightly walks but it’s not as many as one would think. Jackal usually keeps to himself for example, the thin strip of light under his door the only indication of his restless nights, Bandit seeks solitude as well, takes refuge from expectations and demands placed on him mostly by himself, and Thatcher usually roams the base, finding other SAS operators to chat with. Montagne isn’t someone Blitz would’ve expected to encounter; the tall man strikes him as extremely practical, satisfied with his life choices, realistic in his outlook despite all the horrors he must’ve witnessed in his impressively long career.

Blitz harbours a deep-seated respect for the man, knows barely anyone who doesn’t have a tale to tell about him that usually ends with _and that’s how he saved my life_ , yet they hardly interacted at first. Due to them fulfilling similar roles, they were assigned to different missions, remained in their own circles that didn’t really overlap, shared no more than a few words, appreciative nods and relieved smiles. Recently, it changed, something brought them closer together, allowing for a few deep conversations that shook something in Blitz, shook something loose and prompted him to try and figure out where to put it instead so it stays for good. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have approached the older Frenchman if he found him sitting outside in the dark, gazing at the stars.

The silence between them is comfortably amicable and so Blitz tilts his head back and lets his eyes adjust to the absence of light, noticing more and more stars appear, become brighter, twinkle conspiratorially. They remain like this for a while, enjoying the quiet. During the day, the base bustles and breathes, it’s a live thing, busy and boisterous. “What’s keeping you awake?”, Montagne eventually asks and his voice flows like a deep river, smooth and soothing – Blitz remembers the time when that voice was all he could hear next to blinding pain, reassuring him he was going to be alright, everything would be fine. It didn’t lie to him.

“Faces, mostly”, Blitz replies quietly. “There are some that don’t leave me: People we rescued from being trafficked. Children caught in crossfire. They don’t understand why they suffer, they’ve done nothing wrong. And I have no explanation to offer, other than that they were unlucky. What consolation is that?”

He doesn’t normally talk about this. He’s sure Bandit knows about it, judging by the glances he gets when he lies about having slept well, when someone remarks on him always being in a good mood, when he eases the tension with jokes as soon as someone else seems uncomfortable talking about their demons. Thatcher must be aware of it too, the old man is too perceptive yet he probably also realises Blitz can cope, won’t break down, so he never comments. Only now it’s the middle of the night, Montagne’s body is warm next to his, he’s starting to recognise constellations and reality is altered. So there’s no inhibition to talk.

When a strong arm comes to rest around his shoulder, he realises he’s been shivering. Grateful, he scoots closer, leans into the mountain next to him, exhales and feels some of the pressure of which he wasn’t even aware lift from his chest. Breathing becomes easier. “There was a passenger on the plane we stormed”, Montagne begins to talk, vibrations in his torso delivering his words directly into Blitz’ body, “a woman. I thought about her a lot, I stayed with her for a bit afterwards. She’d just lived through the worst days of her life and she caved in under the pressure, hard. When we had to leave, I worried she might do something stupid but I couldn’t do anything. I worried for years. On and off, I’d see her ashen face.”

Blitz just nods. Some images stay with him, too, whether he wants them to or not, they take up residence in his mind and peek their ugly little heads out now and then. A thumb gently brushes over his upper arm, fingers are curling around his biceps, providing solace.

“A few years ago, I was in Paris due to Charlie Hebdo, I’m sure you remember – it was a week or two after that. It sounds impossible, but I ran into her; amidst all the people in Paris, we found each other without meaning to. It was the first time I’ve cried in a long time. We must’ve looked silly, two apparent strangers hugging each other in the middle of the street, crying for no reason. She’s a mother of two children now, leads a normal life.”

“What if, instead, you had found out she’d done something stupid?”, he can’t help but ask. The large hand lifts from his arm, cards through his hair, follows him when he puts his head on Montagne’s shoulder, choosing the warmth against his cheek over the myriad of stars up above.

“Then I couldn’t have changed anything either. I can only do my best and hope it has a positive impact on people’s lives. Worrying about it solves nothing.”

Blitz, of course, knows this. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, nothing he doesn’t know himself. But he’s helpless still, cannot fight the calm that spreads throughout him at the words, as if he’s been absolved, released. Maybe it’s the knowledge of not being alone in this, maybe it’s the hope that if Montagne is able to overcome these thoughts, he will, too.

They stay longer, silent again, fingertips running softly over his scalp making him feel the exhaustion in his bones. “I think I’ll try and go sleep”, he murmurs and stands up when Montagne removes his arm. “Thank you.”

The Frenchman smiles at him, his features lit up by the pale light of a lantern in the distance. “Would you mind some company?”

It’s somehow clear what he’s offering: no more than his words say. Blitz imagines being wrapped up in his arms, seeking sleep not alone anymore but together. He looks into dark eyes, calmly returns the uncertain smile and holds out an inviting hand.

  
  


**1.2** Bandit/Jäger

 

It’s his backbone, an anchor preventing him from drifting away, a reassurance that he’s not alone, doesn’t have to be if he doesn’t want to, that there’s _someone_. Yet he himself remains independent, self-reliant. Sometimes, he doesn’t talk to him for a week straight just because he can, flirts with some of the women in front of him to test whether he still got it – if his aim was to make them wrinkle their nose in disgust, the answer is yes –, drops a few remarks that are meaner than they need to be. It doesn’t make a difference. He never says no regardless, never refuses, welcomes him with open arms for some reason that he will never understand.

Most of the time, they seem like friends to the others. Bandit often joins him for meals, in the workshop, even off duty, they banter and joke around together; only when Jäger’s eyes grow a little too soft, when he greets Bandit with an open smile, when he starts teasing him back – that’s his sign to ignore him again. Walk right past him. Give snappy answers. Mock him. He knows he’ll be allowed back, be awarded all of Jäger’s trust once more as soon as he demands it, so it’s fine. Keep him on his toes. He doesn’t own Bandit but needs to be shown again and again so he doesn’t assume.

His favourite part follows after a period of this, a few days of no interaction that culminate in him bending Jäger over the closest piece of furniture, crowding him against a wall, fucking him on the nearest surface, no words needed, it’s enough that they end up in a room together and, almost immediately, Bandit’s hands are all over him, his tongue in his mouth, his legs between his, and Jäger lets him – his eager moans and complicity turn Bandit on beyond all reason, morph his lust into something animalistic. (And then there are the nights where he sneaks into Jäger’s room, leaves the lights off, rides him until they’re both breathless and neither of them say anything about it, even if he forgets to leave and stays the night, wrapped around him, and if Jäger were to try and talk about it, Bandit would probably hold his mouth shut.)

It’s like that right before Jäger travels to T or C, only half an hour to go, Bandit’s toothmarks visible on his neck, his breath in his hair and his semen running down Jäger’s thigh though _he_ won’t be the one to point it out to him. The assignment sounds like a real shitfest, taken right out of a horror film and slapped onto the real world half-heartedly, he should probably wish Jäger good luck or make a lame joke, anything. Instead, Jäger takes his face into his hands and kisses him like the schmuck he is, as if either of them were the type for cuddling after Bandit just made him scream with his throbbing cock balls deep up his ass. He breaks free, scoffs, wipes his mouth disgustedly, leaves. No time for a goodbye, not after Jäger tried to turn this into some tasteless, second rate affair.

 

And yet, it stays with him, the soft feeling of lips on his own, unhurried, gentle even, devoid of lust. (They kiss like this in the dark, while they undress, as Bandit brings them both closer, when they’re done.) It’s like poison on his lips, drains him of his energy, saps his composure and leaves him irritated and restless but it doesn’t actively turn against him until he hears the news, delivered by a grave-looking Blitz with a grim expression that doesn’t do the situation justice, how can he be so _calm_ about it and Bandit’s lips are burning.

He falters. He floats. He might be alone, even if he doesn’t want to be.

_Jäger crash-landed_ , Blitz said, _he survived but he’s injured._

Bandit doesn’t need to be a scientist to know what this means – even if the three manage to rescue him, it’s entirely possible that he’ll… he’ll turn into -

Pulse insists it’s neither Ash’s nor Thermite’s fault, gets progressively louder the more in his face Bandit gets, manages to get away with no more than a black eye where Bandit breaks at least one finger, ends up running his mouth at the borrowed doc from SAS until Sledge crosses his arms, and his mouth feels on fire, his throat full of unsaids, maybes, if onlys, clogging his windpipe and suffocating him slowly.

 

He thought he was numb by the time he returns. As hard as he searches, his mind refuses to provide him with memories of a time where food didn’t taste bland, where conversations weren’t dull, where he didn’t feel blurry, out of focus. He sags. He wanders. He’s alone.

Blitz’ smile is meaningless until he understands, needs to be told thrice with Blitz looking increasingly exasperated, and then he sharpens abruptly, stands up straight, follows him outside, blinks into the cutting winds of the descending rotors and notices colours around him again. He has the best greeting ready, barbed yet witty, sure to force a tired smile onto his face, his lips already preparing to bend around the words. The feeling in them has come back but they don’t remember the soft touch anymore, they need a reminder.

Jäger is pale, has possibly lost weight and all patience. He’s exhausted, fed up, has spent entirely too long in quarantine and brushes everyone off. He walks right past them, close enough that Bandit can smell him and would only have to extend a hand to touch him. He doesn’t. Instead, he stares after him. Not a single glance.

No, this isn’t how this goes. He’s not the one to be -

Blitz attempts to stop him, talk sense into him, tell him Jäger needs rest but he shakes himself loose and trails after him, slams the door shut behind them. They look at each other for an eternity, Jäger worn out, worn down, and Bandit’s mouth itches. “It’s good you’re here”, Jäger tells him without any of the embarrassment he usually shows, “I could use a good fucking after that ordeal.”

It’s snarky yet funny, makes a weary smile tug at the corners of his mouth and he knows with sudden clarity that he’s made a decision in all that time he spent waiting (worrying). This time, when they gravitate towards each other, all they do is cling, grasp, wrap, clutch, and Bandit wants to reply but doesn’t trust his voice, doesn’t trust himself. It’s him who holds Jäger’s head in place now and the kiss tastes of salt but if Jäger notices, he doesn’t comment on it. His lips tingle afterwards which isn’t an altogether bad feeling, so he just does it again and feels things click into place. He’s no longer bowing under the weight, no longer aimless, far from alone.

  
  


**1.3** Bandit/Jäger

 

“It’s pretty invasive, so I wish I could be there, you know? Not that I don’t have any faith in the doctors, don’t get me wrong, I made sure they’re good, but it’s also the time after that I’m worried about”, Jäger continues, his expression dour.

“Does he not have anyone to take care of him?” IQ’s voice is soft and her sympathy wraps around him like a comforting blanket he really needs right now. She saw through him, immediately knew something was up – though admittedly, the cluttering of random parts on the tabletop in front of him must’ve tipped her off.

“Not all the time, no. My aunt and her kids will stop by regularly, they promised, but they’re all working. I’m just worried that he’ll overexert himself somehow, maybe fall again and no one will be there -”

“Hey, nerd”, someone cuts in and punches his upper arm so hard it actually hurts a little. Bandit appears in his field of view, beaming, thrumming with energy and bouncing on his feet as usual, gunning to expend all that motivation somewhere. Where Jäger has been quiet and withdrawn the past days, his teammate is the exact opposite, dragging him out of his room to partake in inane activities that at least take his mind off things but leave him bemused nonetheless. “You wanna go shoot some squirrels? I just saw one outside.”

“Fuck off, Dom”, IQ snaps at him before Jäger can, “don’t be insensitive.”

“Oh, did someone spit in your coffee?”

Before the two can start a proper pissing contest, Jäger addresses his friend with a sigh: “My uncle’s going to have surgery, you know this, I told you before. He has a benign -”

“Look, did drone boy get a delivery?”

Sometimes, dealing with Bandit feels like trying to teach a kitten arithmetic. He exchanges a long-suffering glance with IQ who just rolls her eyes, then curiosity gets the better of him and he follows Bandit’s gaze to where a frowning Echo is unwrapping a suspiciously small cardboard box. There are warning labels, or at least that’s what Jäger assumes they are since they’re in Chinese, and a short discussion between Dokkaebi and the Japanese man ensues about whether they should ask Lesion or Ying to translate. By now, everyone in the workshop is staring at them.

After Echo finally opens the flaps, a shrill shriek is the first indication that something’s happening and suddenly, there’s _chaos_. Dokkaebi dives under the table, Echo jumps back and small dots start to emerge from the package, swarming out, even _flying_ and that’s when Jäger realises they’re ladybugs. “No fucking _way_ ”, IQ curses and _runs_ , literally flees the room together with a few others and it’s carnage – how are they ever going to get rid of them again?

A few land on him, ticklish on his bare skin and beautiful in colour. He loves bugs, beetles, spiders, has always done so, especially as a child, and therefore he’s the only one who sits calmly amid the storm and just _smiles_ , his thoughts not dwelling on his uncle for the moment.

 

It keeps happening. During training, someone ties Kapkan’s boots together, causing him to eat dirt and let loose a fearsome barrage of swearwords that makes Glaz blush and Tachanka laugh so hard he has to sit down. How anyone even managed this is a complete enigma to everyone involved but it allows Jäger to steer the conversation away from his family. He appreciates IQ’s and Blitz’ concerns, he really does, though he wishes they would stop regarding him with pity in their eyes and walking on eggshells around him. The surgery is not without risks and the whole situation sucks, yes, there’s nothing to sugar coat here, but that doesn’t mean it needs to be on his mind all day. Bandit does the complete opposite which isn’t necessarily better, barging in tactlessly, making inconsiderate remarks and dismissing his worries casually. Nevertheless, Jäger finds that he prefers his company.

One evening, Blitz and he are walking back to their quarters only to be faced with a silvery shining monstrosity that is Blitz’ half of the room. It’s as if someone drew a perfect line through the middle and wrapped everything they could find on Blitz’ side in aluminium foil – the effort and time that must’ve gone into this is remarkable, even more so when Blitz defeatedly opens a drawer and complains about his _socks_ being wrapped individually. For a while, Jäger perches on his own bed and watches him amusedly until he finally takes pity and helps, the crinkling of the foil and the simplicity of the task weirdly soothing.

“You must’ve made someone really angry”, he comments and is met with a displeased frown because that isn’t something Blitz would do. Even if he _did_ offend someone, he’d immediately talk it out with them. This is when Jäger starts to get suspicious.

The next day, as the four Germans step outside, Bandit instantly gets pelted with an impressively large water balloon that explodes so viciously they all end up soaked. Neither of them wastes any time, they dash apart, locate several barrels filled with more ammunition and fight the SAS operators who currently control all of them – IQ’s aim is brutal, Bandit ends up mud wrestling with Smoke and then with Jäger and Blitz unsuccessfully tries to break them up at first before he gets bombarded, fed up and serious in that order. It takes Montagne, Doc _and_ Twitch to stop the madness though neither of the three manage to get away unscathed.

Jäger’s clothes are ruined, his jeans ripped in a few places, he’s completely filthy and probably covered in bruises but there’s a wide grin on his face matching Bandit’s who is still straddling him for some reason, his body radiating a reassuring warmth. “To be fair, they started it”, Bandit tells an entirely unamused Doc.

“We just found these outside”, Smoke protests, “what else were we supposed to do?” And Jäger’s eyebrows lift a fraction.

 

Bandit muttering to himself is an unsettling sight as it is – Bandit clearly carrying something in his cupped hands while talking to it, looking ridiculously shifty and sneaking through the base in the early morning is _terrifying_. Jäger catches a glimpse of him and follows, isn’t entirely sure whether he wants to know what’s going on. Yet curiosity gets the better of him and he calls out, relishes the satisfaction of seeing Bandit freeze comically mid-step, clearly consider making a run for it and then turn around with a laughably guilty expression. “Oh, uh”, he says, “good morning. I wasn’t – I was just -”

“Just taking your pet worms for a walk, were you?”, Jäger asks and suppresses a laugh when Bandit visibly deflates. He pouts the entire time while Jäger accompanies him outside so he can throw them onto the nearest patch of grass and even as they make their way to the canteen for an early breakfast. He’s still restless, seems to burst with the need to say something but stays uncharacteristically quiet. “The surgery’s done, he’s fine, by the way. I got word from my aunt earlier.”

Bandit’s nervous gaze darts to him and back. “Yeah? That’s good, I guess. Would’ve inconvenienced you if he’d kicked the bucket anyway, what with -”

“You didn’t have to do all this.” Bandit splutters, attempts to object but Jäger’s having none of it. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but honestly? A hug would’ve been enough.” There’s a short pause, then he’s wordlessly pulled into a tight embrace, arms encircling his waist and he returns it with a grin on his lips, the relief of the good news only now fully sinking in. Neither of them let go for a long time and Jäger feels the tension seep out of Bandit’s limbs, feels him finally come to rest. “Thank you.”

“Oh, shut up”, comes a quiet reply and if Jäger didn’t know better, he’d think it sounded embarrassed.

  
  


**1.4** Buck/Glaz

 

When the door finally swings open after a few muttered yet heartfelt curses could be heard from inside, Glaz has to scrape together all his willpower not to burst out laughing at the sight: the otherwise so organised, dignified and cheerful Canadian is a miserable _mess_. His apron is splattered with red spots that Glaz would guess is tomato sauce, there are flour smears everywhere – even on his face – and he’s never looked this apologetic before. “I’m so, _so_ sorry”, is the first thing that comes out of his mouth and isn’t this stereotypical.

Before he even sets foot inside, Glaz leans in and kisses him, the beard slightly scratchy on his own clean-shaven skin, the sensation still unfamiliar but not unpleasant at all. He can feel Buck holding back so he doesn’t dirty Glaz’ clothes as well and the sentiment makes him smile against Buck’s lips. “What’s wrong?”, he wants to know and doesn’t miss how Buck suddenly seems less upset about whatever it is that threw him off-kilter. He’s extremely touch reliant, calms down best when Glaz strokes his hair or his beard, curls into his gentle ministrations like a puppy, almost shuts off in bliss when Glaz massages the back of his neck – physical contact just does it for him and Glaz is not above abusing this knowledge.

“You’d get a shorter list by asking what _isn’t_ wrong”, Buck sighs and leads the way into his kitchen after Glaz took off his shoes. It’s his first time in Buck’s apartment and he’s been promised a _special_ evening, whatever that’s supposed to entail, so he allows his gaze to wander curiously. The flat is small and quaint, practical yet comfortable and the exact opposite of Glaz’ cramped, richly decorated and messy apartment in which posters and paintings cover all the walls. In the kitchen, it’s as if their personalities swapped – Glaz’ is well-equipped, tidy and meticulously organised whereas Buck’s looks like something exploded very recently. “I know you love home made meals, so I tried to cook.”

Judging by the catastrophe that’s facing the two of them, the emphasis is on _tried_. “What did you cook, a grenade?”, Glaz asks amusedly and Buck looks like he wants to die.

“I’m honestly considering whether we should just order take-out. The tomato soup doesn’t taste right, I forgot to thaw the fish and don’t actually have any idea how to steam vegetables _and_ the crème brûlée didn’t set.”

Glaz is genuinely impressed at how much effort Buck put into this – it was meant as another casual date additional to the ones they’ve had so far, nothing serious yet, just testing the waters after their entirely accidental make out session one night after which they danced around each other awkwardly, exchanging shy smiles and engaging in conversations whenever they found the time until Buck took the plunge and asked him out. But if Buck took the time to venture into mostly unfamiliar territory just to please him, he might have more serious intentions and Glaz is thrilled about the prospect: he’s gotten far too attached to the handsome Canadian himself.

“Can I see for myself?”, he asks and Buck shrugs, nods defeatedly. Seeing him this frustrated is tugging at Glaz’ heartstrings and he has to control himself not to comfort him by just kissing him breathless but he has a meal to save. He finds a small spoon and tries some of the soup (too sour), tests the texture of the fish (rock hard) and inspects the bell peppers and broccoli Buck has lined up amidst the chaos. Buck is watching him with trepidation. “Extremely salvageable”, Glaz judges and makes the Canadian sag in relief, “I need some sugar, heavy cream, pepper, a pan, some oil, a cutting board and a knife.”

“I have all of those things except for the cream. Do you want me to run out and get some?”

“You don’t have to, but it’ll help. Go now, I’ll find my way around your kitchen.”

“You’re a lifesaver”, Buck murmurs and takes off the apron, ties it around Glaz’ waist despite his protests and leaves with a quick peck to his cheek.

Only after Glaz has started gently thawing the fish in the microwave and is busy cutting the peppers so he can caramelise them quickly after they’re done eating the soup does he realise Buck trusts him enough to leave him alone in his flat.

 

It ends up being pretty much perfect. While he stirs in the cream, he explains to Buck how tomatoes are naturally sour and a pinch of sugar helps against that after which Buck drills him with endless food related questions that Glaz answers gladly, relaying tons of advice that’s probably too overwhelming to take in entirely but because Buck’s eyes are gleaming whenever he talks for an extended period of time, he finds it hard to stop. He almost burns the peppers because apparently, he hums to himself when he’s cooking and not currently chewing Buck’s ear off and this fact alone is enough for Buck to want to shove his tongue down Glaz’ throat and never stop. When they separate again, there’s the promise of _more_ hanging in the space between them, written in their heavy breathing and the easy grins showing on their faces.

For the moment, they have a dinner to eat, however, and so Glaz scrambles to simultaneously save the peppers and give Buck instructions on how to best fry the breaded fish. They eat at a proper table while talking and Glaz appreciates the simplicity of it, there’s no TV running, they’re not watching a film, not listening to music, it’s just pure Buck and he enjoys himself immensely because he’s great company, genuinely listens and asks interesting questions.

During a lull in their conversation, Glaz reaches over the tabletop to lightly stroke the back of Buck’s hand with his fingertips. “Thank you. This was lovely”, he says sincerely and the smile on Buck’s face is _blinding_.

“I’m just sorry there’s no dessert, I did everything the recipe -”

“You can have _me_ as dessert”, Glaz interrupts him casually and Buck’s mouth snaps shut audibly. His blush shows even through his thick beard but he mutely turns his hand around to hold Glaz’ while he stands up slowly as if he still finds it hard to believe.

They don’t make it to the bedroom and Glaz discovers it’s as much of a joy to _learn_ from Buck as it is to teach him.

  
  


**1.5** Tachanka/Capitão

 

“Okay”, Capitão says flatly. The person next to him says nothing, only takes a deep drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly, quite obviously at peace with himself and the world. “Okay”, Capitão repeats and wonders whether it’s apparent he’s grasping at straws here. “We were drunk.”

“No, we weren’t”, Tachanka cuts in and stretches, rests his arm on the headboard behind the Brazilian before stubbing out the glowing stick with his other hand. He didn’t offer it to Capitão and though he doesn’t smoke, never has, today he might’ve accepted.

“I know”, he replies from between clenched teeth, “but we need a story. Or at least I need one for when you inevitably blurt everything out to someone who didn’t ask.”

“I can keep a secret.”

Capitão puts his head in his hands. “No, you can’t. Yesterday you almost made Pulse cry by revealing all his darkest fears for no reason.”

“There was a reason. He was looking at me funny.”

“He has a _concussion_ , Chanka, he was trying to focus and -”

“Besides, I don’t drink.” Capitão is floored at the announcement and stares at the Russian next to him with a wide eye while trying not to let his gaze slip lower to his chiselled abs and - “Gave it up a few years ago when I noticed I did it a little too often. I don’t like it when my body tells my mind what to do.”

He almost buys it. For a second, he believes him, wants to adjust his mental image of the Russian leader accordingly, judge him a little less harshly, only then he remembers _what just happened_ and scowls. The corners of Tachanka's mouth are twitching and give him away. “This isn’t funny.”

“I disagree. Watching you get your knickers in a twist over nothing is _extremely_ funny.”

“This isn’t ‘nothing’! I don’t even like you, you know that?”

“The feeling would be mutual if I didn’t know how well you sucked cock.” That is _it_. Tachanka's booming laugh rings in his ears as he moves to get up, flee the cursed bed in which he landed due to circumstances he can’t even remember clearly – there was a challenge involved, pale blue eyes twinkling expectantly, a blunt hand and then his instincts kicked in, muscle memory almost, dancing the oh so familiar dance and now he’s _here_. Tachanka reaches out, catches his arm and drags him back effortlessly, pulls him close to his still naked body and prevents another escape. “Don’t be offended, that was a compliment. I’ve only met a few people who could -”

“Let me go _this instant_. You’re callous, rude, your entire special forces have a shocking disregard for innocent human lives and if I could help it, I’d never want to set eyes on you again.”

“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty”, Tachanka purrs in his ear and then does something that feels suspiciously like… petting Capitão's hair. He’s too stunned to resist further and the fingers glide lower, press against a sore spot between his shoulder blades and he lets loose a small moan that he regrets instantly because it’s met with a low chuckle.

“What are you doing?”, he asks anxiously, now petrified in Tachanka's embrace, knowing full well the other man could knock him out in less than a second, beat him up beyond recognition. Yet he chooses to _hug him_.

“I don’t know how it is in that backwards country you’re from”, the Russian murmurs, “but in my homeland, we call this cuddling.”

Is he fucking serious. Capitão blinks, waits for the punchline and realises in horror that there isn’t one. “Why”, he wants to know and it’s less of a question and more a helpless statement encompassing pretty much everything right now.

“These things happen.” _No, they don’t_ , Capitão thinks exasperatedly, _not to me_. “No need to get so worked up about it. Accept it and move on. Maybe we’ll understand each other better in the future, huh?”

He’s loath to admit it but Tachanka actually sounds reasonable. What’s done is done, he can’t undo his actions after all. It’s best to leave all this behind him as soon as possible. “You’re right”, he acknowledges reluctantly and catches himself relaxing into the affectionate touches, “ _somehow_ , you’re right. I shouldn’t -”

“I know I am. Does that mean you’re up for another round? You’ll have to wait a bit though, I’m not as virile as I once was.”

And as Tachanka laughs at his own words, Capitão thinks: _This is hell. I have found hell_.

  
  


**1.6** Fuze/Jäger

 

For a second, he doesn’t know what stings more: the throbbing in his temple, his abused midsection or the fact that the old lady who’s been waiting for the bus immediately got up and left as soon as he plonked himself down on the bench next to her, prompting an offended huff, a judging glance and then a crisp walk to a nondescript point five metres away that she considers a safe distance to the rowdy youths. The question answers itself as a sudden blinding pain shoots through him and makes him gasp, disappears as quickly as it came but he wavers nonetheless.

The Russian kid hurriedly sits down next to him, puts an arm around his shoulders and holds him up. There’s none of the brief hesitation with which Marius’ friends have begun treating him, every touch somehow more deliberate than before he told them, calculated even, careful not to be misunderstood. Nowadays, his brain links everything around him to his… _nature_ , misconstrues derision, disgust, disapproval where there (probably) is none – the old lady can’t have known, it’s not as if it’s tattooed on his forehead yet a small part in him insists that she’s _aware_ and therefore refuses to be anywhere near him. He doubts the Russian would be this supportive if he knew, doubts he’d touch him like this, innocently, ignorantly.

It’s nice, though. He can’t deny it feels nice despite the bittersweet taste that’s in his mouth, in his throat, in his mind. He relaxes a little and winces when another wave of discomfort pulses through him, making him groan. “You alright? Shame none of the girls from my course are around, they always seem have painkillers on them for some reason.”

His accent is cute but his naivety is even more endearing. Marius leans back, rests his head on the glass pane behind him, closes his eyes in the hopes of alleviating the sharp pulsing in his head and smiles slightly. “You don’t know why?”, he asks amusedly and is thankful for the brief distraction. The overall feeling of not belonging, somehow being _shameful_ lessens gradually.

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Where are you from?”

“Uzbekistan. I came here a few years ago.”

So not a Russian after all. He’s tall, well-built and has a face that’ll break a lot of hearts in his lifetime. Marius blinks and gets a better look at him, his strong muscles relaxed now, his body in a casual sprawl, strikingly at odds with the display he’s put on earlier. “Those guys you just beat up were probably in their mid-twenties”, he says and the kid somehow doesn’t seem surprised, just nods. “You’re insane. There were three, they could’ve easily destroyed you.” _Like they did with me_ , he doesn’t add.

“I’m a good fighter”, comes the cocky reply and the arm is withdrawn. “Also, you’re bleeding like a pig.” He gets up, approaches the elderly woman who seems nothing but scandalised at the audacity but provides him with tissues nonetheless. Calmly, he takes his place next to Marius again, their legs brushing, and dabs at his face gently, the pristine white quickly turning into crimson.

Marius is unable to stop looking at him. His methodical tranquillity is reassuring and for a while, neither of them say anything. “Do you want to know why they beat me up?” Apparently, he’s in a self-destructive mood today – he could’ve accepted the Uzbek’s kindness, allow it to warm his heart and leave it at that but no, his mind decided that he should really rub in the unfairness of it all.

“I’ve seen you a few times, you’re one of the good ones”, comes the enigmatic reply, “so it’s not because you hung around with the wrong people.”

“I’m gay”, Marius tells him and why is it so much easier to admit to a perfect stranger what he didn’t accept for the longest time, what took him nearly forever to confess to his friends?

The kid stills. Draws his brows together, examines him a little more closely. “What does that mean?”, he asks and it’s not that he doesn’t know the word, it’s that he doesn’t _understand_.

How can he be so pure, Marius doesn’t get it. “You know how you look at attractive girls and want to do things with them? I have that with boys. There’s nothing I can do against it. I can’t change it. It’s always been like that.”

The Uzbek tilts his head in curiosity and even through the pain in his abdomen and skull that muddles his thoughts, Marius can feel the breathtaking relief flooding him, mixed with disbelief and a grim contentment stemming from the fact that being treated like a human being feels like something _special_ to him now. “Have you tried it? With girls?” Marius nods. “How was it?”

“I’ve kissed some. It was nice, I liked them, just not enough. The first time I kissed a boy, it was fire. Just…” He makes a vague gesture; none of the words he knows come close to doing it justice.

“Fire”, the kid repeats, feeling the word on his tongue, “I never had that. I know I should have, but I didn’t, not with girls. I’ve never tried…” He trails off, averts his gaze and leaves Marius staring at him.

“You should”, he says softly. “Just so that you know.”

The bus arrives and the old lady strides past them to the front, side-eyes the two adolescents on the bench and starts an aggressively polite conversation with the driver while she buys her ticket. A few people leave, throw Marius who’s probably still covered in blood regardless of the tissues a quick glance and then pointedly gaze elsewhere as they go about their business. When the bus is gone, Marius is still looking at the Uzbek and the Uzbek is still avoiding looking back. Cars rush by, the leaves of a nearby tree rustle and all he can hear is the nervous scratching of the kid’s fingernails over the seam of his trousers.

“I’m going to find myself a place with a bathroom so I can wash my face.”

This catches his attention and he finally turns back to Marius. “Can you walk on your own?”

A shrug. “I can try.” He senses the indecisiveness, the unwillingness to ask. “Are you hungry though? If you help me, we can find a café and I’ll buy you something to eat for the trouble.”

They both know he’s offering more than just food. Even with how clueless the kid is, there’s no way he doesn’t realise.

“Okay”, he finally agrees, “come on, then.” And he slips one of his arms around Marius’ waist to help him rise, no hesitation, no treating him with kid gloves. It’s mostly the immediate dizziness, the black spots in front of his eyes and the insistent throbbing that make him hold on to the Uzbek tightly for support as they make their way down the street aimlessly.

Mostly.

  
  


**1.7** Tachanka/Jäger

 

Breathing heavily, Jäger blinks into the overcast sky and contemplates existence. Right now, _his_ existence is a mixture of hurt, humiliation, ineptitude and vague ire directed towards mankind in general and two Spetsnaz in specific. He feels like he just did a very intense workout, only he didn’t train at their gym but with steamrollers and jackhammers, every inhale keenly informs him about the abused state of his ribs and every exhale drags him deeper into the pit of exhaustion, threatening to make his eyes fall closed and for him to just accept death as a viable alternative to this pain. A merciless face appears in his vision and has the audacity to look _bored_ even when confronted with his suffering.

“Get up, you’re improving, you can’t just stop now”, a voice speaks up behind him and also sounds largely uncaring. Kapkan shrugs and extends a hand to help him back up, glancing at the older Spetsnaz questioningly. “Do the throws again. You’re pretty sloppy with them.”

“Sure, why not, with how often they meet, my face and the dirt are going to be best friends after this”, Jäger replies mockingly and doesn’t miss the twitch of Kapkan’s lips. “Oh I bet you’re enjoying yourself immensely, huh?”

“I don’t get explicit permission to beat someone up every day”, Kapkan says calmly.

Exasperatedly, Jäger turns to Tachanka and feels another wave of anger upon realising the Russian isn’t even _looking_ but rather browsing his phone. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Let’s take a break, I’ll get something to drink.”

As Kapkan turns around and heads towards the nearest building, Jäger stomps over to the smirking old bastard and rips the phone out of his hands. “You know, when you said _let’s practise some hand to hand,_ this is _not_ what I had in mind.”

With a complete disregard to decency, Tachanka pulls him closer to where he’s sitting, stretches a little and starts groping Jäger’s buttocks when he obediently leans down for a quick kiss that almost immediately turns into something much filthier. Jäger is still miffed though the blunt hands massaging his ass and the way Tachanka contentedly hums into his mouth appease him a little since they also distract him from the fact that everything _hurts_. “My boy is one of the best though and it’s easier for me to give advice when I watch. Also, I like it when you’re sweaty.”

“Your boy”, Jäger repeats, unamused at the glint in Tachanka's eyes.

“Yes. They’re all my boys, except for you. You’re my pet.”

“Okay, that’s it, sex is cancelled.” He twists out of Tachanka's grip, throws the phone in his lap and returns to the patch of grass that doesn’t look half as beaten up as he feels – not a minute too soon because Kapkan returns with two water bottles and a towel around his neck, frowning at the still chuckling Tachanka perched on his box like a King.

“Are you sure you’re up for more?”, he asks sceptically, eyeing Jäger’s slightly uncomfortable posture that stems not only from continuously having been thrown around for the past hour but also the fact that he can still feel broad hands roaming his body. “You’re so thin and fragile, I don’t want to break -”

_Why are all the Russians like this_ , Jäger thinks and only barely resists the urge to roll his eyes when Tachanka almost chokes on his own spit behind him. “Yes, I’m _fine_. And I’m not as fucking delicate as you think. Let’s go. Hit me.”

So Kapkan does.

Once Tachanka is done laughing at the way Jäger almost loses his shoes going down, he actually puts his phone away and grants the two his full attention. “Alright, let’s work on your stance first. Maxim, correct him. You want to be relaxed and don’t lock your legs.” Under Tachanka's instructions, Kapkan walks around him, pushes and pulls on different body parts and moves him like a marionette. “There you go, that’s best if you expect kicks. This is for when you’re facing two opponents. If you have a knife, you stand like that. If it’s just you versus someone else, this is good. Be loose. As loose as possible. There you go, see how you don’t move when he pushes you? Just relax, that makes it easier.”

The longer Tachanka talks, the warmer Jäger’s cheeks become. Kapkan’s face is impassive, he’s probably done this routine a thousand times and though Jäger _did_ receive training in hand to hand combat, he’s rusty – however, that’s not the problem. The problem are Tachanka's words, uttered in a soothing, assuring voice, a tone that he usually only adapts when… he only uses it when…

“This counter is easy, you just have to go down a little more. More, Jäger. Not to your knees just yet, don’t be so eager. When he attacks you, hold on tight and don’t let go, alright?”

Alright. Okay. Yes, this is _definitely_ on purpose because what Jäger’s mind now supplies him with is _not_ the awareness to actually react to Kapkan’s quick movements but rather pale skin with scars that tell entire stories, a hand on the back of his head and the deep rumble of Tachanka's voice above him as he kneels -

He hits the ground so hard it knocks the air out of his lungs momentarily and Kapkan scoffs. “Are you even trying?”

“Practise makes perfect”, Tachanka adds and his smile is _audible_ , “he’ll get there, he’s got the potential. He just needs a little bit of _guidance_.”

Jäger grits his teeth, rises again of his own accord and refuses to let Tachanka's words get to him as he adapts the correct stance once more, prompting a satisfied nod from Kapkan. The next few minutes are much more successful, he forces himself to concentrate and implement the advice given regardless of the innuendo under which it’s buried – he even manages to make Kapkan stumble once and he can tell both Russians are impressed.

Unfortunately.

“You’re doing good, Jäger. You could do it, I told you. Yeah, that’s right. Just like that. Oh, that’s good, do it again.”

He’s balling his hands into fists, unfocuses his eyes so he can anticipate movements better and tries to let his instincts take over for a quicker reaction time.

“Yes, keep going. That looks beautiful, perfect, you’re getting it. I could watch you all day. No, deeper, go deeper -”

Jäger’s composure shatters and he starts turning around to tell Tachanka that it’s _lower_ , not fucking _deeper_ and he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing and then a fist collides with his solar plexus and all the air in his lungs is expelled with a pitiful _oof_. He sinks to his knees, clutching his midsection and is extremely glad he can’t see Kapkan’s face when he remarks: “Not to make this weird, but do you have a boner?”

He’s still struggling to breathe and suppress the fierce blush crawling onto his cheeks when Tachanka joins them. “Thank you, Maxim, I’ll take it from here. I know exactly what he needs now.” Effortlessly, he picks Jäger up and throws him over his shoulder like a sack of coal, starts making his way to the base.

“What, are you going to throw him under a cold shower?”, Kapkan wants to know and Tachanka laughs as he grips the flailing bundle of bruises tighter.

“Nope. I’m going to fuck him.”

And while he continues to struggle, Jäger lifts his head to find Kapkan staring after them with a decidedly amused expression. He notices Jäger returning his gaze with burning cheeks, grins and mouths _good luck_ right before Tachanka slaps Jäger’s arse heartily.

  
  


**1.8** Blitz/Rook

 

“Stupid fucking motherfucker goddamn arse-licking twat asshat”, Bandit continues his endless litany of swears that stopped being impressive about ten minutes ago, right after they were told they’re going to be picked up in an hour at best because Mute’s cat is acting up at the vet. The way Smoke cursed up a storm on the phone implied that he suffered the brunt of it and also foreshadowed Bandit’s reaction to the revelation that they’re stuck here, by the side of a road next to a field, for considerably longer than planned.

Rook’s mood improved proportionally to the way Bandit’s worsened over time and he’s looking positively _radiant_ by now, smiling to himself and stuffing his face with the strawberries they just purchased from the nearby farm. “At least these are nice”, he replies cheerfully and Blitz is tempted to hold his mouth shut to stop him from poking the bear – they’ll be stuck with Bandit for a little longer after all.

“If you say anything else about these goddamn strawberries I’ll shove them so far up your asshole you’ll be able to taste them”, Bandit snaps at him, pissed at Rook and the entire situation and probably himself for agreeing to step out of the car with them to quickly buy some fruits while Mute drops off his cat, because now he has to watch the two of them being lovey-dovey and Blitz would be lying if he claimed he didn’t crank up the affectionate touches a bit just to irritate Bandit further.

“That doesn’t sound too bad, they’re delicious after all. And I don’t mind having things shoved -”

“Alright, why don’t we split up and take a walk or something?”, Blitz cuts in before Bandit can attempt to make good on his threat.

“What, you expect me to frolic around in the field or what?”

It’s a lovely summer day, comfortably warm and the landscape is picturesque though Blitz should’ve known better than to assume Bandit would appreciate something as simple as this. “Do you want to sit around here for the next hour and list every swearword in existence instead?”

Bandit thinks for a moment and then suggests: “How about we play fuck, marry, kill?”

“Oh, I haven’t done that in ages! Yes, let’s do it”, Rook immediately jumps on the idea for some reason and forcibly feeds Blitz a strawberry when he opens his mouth to protest – this is one of Bandit’s extremely transparent plans to make the two of them fight since as much as he loathes to be in their presence, nothing entertains him more than seeing them at odds with each other. “What are we doing, celebrities?”

“I was thinking co-workers.”

Another strawberry gets pushed between Blitz’ lips before he can react with indignation and though Rook is right in calling them delicious, shutting up your boyfriend’s reasonable objections is hardly their intended use. “I like the sound of that. Only guys, right? You start, Spetsnaz.” Blitz has the sudden realisation that he should be thankful to the Gods or fate or whatever it is that Bandit and Rook usually can’t stand each other. Imagining them forming an alliance is terrifying.

“You can’t -”, he starts to mumble around a mouthful of fruits but it’s too late.

“That’s easy. Fuck Tachanka, marry Fuze, kill Kapkan.”

Rook snorts and then does this thing he always does: slides his hand into Blitz’ without even looking, interlacing their fingers in a silent reassurance. It’d be heart-warming if it wasn’t usually accompanied by him spouting some really questionable statements. “Chanka’s dick isn’t _that_ big, no need to be thirsty. I’d fuck Kapkan, marry Glaz and kill Tachanka. Mon cœur?”

Blitz merely shakes his head but holds on to Rook’s hand. “I’m not doing this.”

“Aw, come on.” He’s pulled closer and kissed sweetly, ignores the groaning and gagging coming from Bandit in the background in favour of licking some of the refreshing flavour off Rook’s tongue. “It’s just for fun, mon cœur.”

He sighs deeply but relents, appeased by the deep kiss. “Alright. Fuck Fuze, marry Kapkan and kill Tachanka.” When he notices Bandit’s judging glare, he feels blood rush to his cheeks and the need to justify himself. “Fuze is good-looking and Kapkan is _really_ nice, have you ever really talked to -”

Bandit refuses to hear any of it and dismisses him easily: “Okay, moving on. SAS?”

“Fuck Sledge, marry Mute, kill Smoke.” There’s no hesitation from Rook and Blitz looks at him curiously, prompting a slightly guilty grin. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same.”

“I second that”, Bandit nods, “though I’d kill Thatcher instead.”

“I don’t.” The other two turn to Blitz. “I’d marry Sledge.”

“Your taste in men is so horrible I bet you were voted Most Likely To Die Alone in school”, Bandit informs him levelly and throws Rook a sceptical glance, as if to imply he has no idea how Blitz landed someone like _him_ in the first place, to which Blitz genuinely has no answer.

“GSG9?”, Rook prompts and watches with satisfaction how Bandit’s face darkens. “I know what _your_ answer is going to be.”

Blitz rolls his eyes and wonders whether this is why Rook agreed to this in the first place – though he’s been told several times not to, the young Frenchman wastes no opportunity to tease Bandit about his futile crush on their teammate, making obvious comments around Jäger that the mechanic overlooks with an almost enviable obliviousness while Bandit has to be held back so he doesn’t cause Rook any physical harm. Blitz decides to bite the bullet and go first but he finds he _cannot_ in good conscience claim he’d have sex with or marry either of the other two. “Honestly, I’d just kill myself.”

His lover snorts, amused, and Bandit retaliates angrily: “Okay, then how about GIGN, hm? And you can’t name the same person twice. Come on, Blitz, I think you should take this one.”

This is an easy prompt that Blitz has no qualms about answering: “Sure. Fuck Doc, marry this bundle of joy and kill Monty.”

“Oh, would you?”, Rook asks and squeezes his hand to make their gazes meet, his eyes twinkling and an expectant smile on his lips. Blitz feels there’s more behind the seemingly simple question but is unable to discern what exactly, so he just nods.

“Yeah, of course. You shouldn’t be surprised, we have -”

“No”, his lover says gently and then repeats with more emphasis: “ _Would you_?”

The sun is warm on his naked skin, a cool breeze preventing the air from feeling stuffy and the road next to them is empty – they left the farm behind when they decided to walk a little, stretch their legs, so it’s just them. Rook has never looked more alluring than now as he sinks to one knee, bathed in golden light and with a grin brighter than anything around him and Blitz’ brain has trouble catching up, only does so slowly while he notices Bandit’s expression morph from incomprehension to incredulity to _horror_ in his peripheral vision and that’s when it finally registers. “Oh my God”, he says at the same time as Bandit though their inflection differs wildly.

“Was this why you fucking asked me to -”, Bandit wants to know, furious, and that makes it all the better – not only did Rook plan this but he also managed to involve Bandit against his knowledge and isn’t this _delicious_ on top of absolutely wonderful.

He pulls Rook back to his feet and kisses him, whispers his answer and then kisses him some more in between gentle, disbelieving laughs that he cannot suppress, leaving Bandit to the realisation that he’s going to have to wait around with them for at least half an hour more and that they’ll be unbearable and disgusting and probably unable to keep their hands from each other because _wow_ this came out of nowhere but he’s over the moon. And Rook really couldn’t have picked a more perfect moment.

As they embrace each other tightly, holding on and grinning into their kisses, Bandit starts cursing again.

  
  


**1.9** Tachanka/Montagne

 

Drops of water are drumming on the wooden roof overhead, creating an almost magical ambient noise interspersed with thicker drops falling onto the wet ground. Rain has always been Montagne’s favourite weather and rain in the English countryside in the middle of summer is a beautiful experience – the stately country home in his back, wide open fields ahead of him, a bulbous glass of Marc in his hand and he feels waves of nostalgia washing over him. He’s in an odd mood today, a mixture of seeing Thatcher overwhelmed with gratitude at the fact that _everyone_ came, tasting the sharp bite of the Pomace brandy and watching the others interact effortlessly like puzzle pieces that fit. He couldn’t even say why or for what but his heart weeps and rejoices at the same time, selfishly longs for _more_ , whatever that means, mourns for what has been lost, is grateful for what is still there.

He withdrew from the party not because he felt the need to distance himself but because he felt the need to approach himself, address this strange pressure in his chest that’s not yet unpleasant. It’s only a short run from the back door to the pavilion and Montagne doesn’t mind getting his shoes dirty if it means he can enjoy the refreshing, fruity brandy in the privacy and cosiness of the fancy gazebo Thatcher and his mates built themselves years ago. Even after decades, they’ve stayed in touch with each other, sometimes met up here and have openly encouraged use of the house whenever anyone so desired. As far as Montagne knows, it belongs to one of their families but they all come here now and then, invite guests, family, friends. Each of them has a key.

Squelching footsteps alert him to someone’s presence, a familiar groan announcing a certain someone who first shakes himself like a dog and then, with a sigh, plops down on the bench next to Montagne, making no effort to be anything but loud or preserve the quiet serenity of the place. Regardless, Montagne can’t help but smile – it’s so typical. He’s never been different, always came barrelling in unsubtly. “Am I disturbing you?”, his voice rasps, accent thick, and the tone of it makes clear that he wouldn’t leave even if he were.

It could be dangerous. Montagne is feeling wistful already and being faced with _him_ of all people, right here, right now, might trigger something in his current fragile state of mind. Still, he turns, lays his eyes upon Tachanka who’s watching him attentively, curiously, seeming open and approachable in his casual clothing. Something takes hold of Montagne’s heart, strengthens its beat to the point where he’s sure the other man can see it through his shirt. “No”, he replies softly, “you can stay.”

A nod and Tachanka leans back, studies him mutely. Oftentimes, he has the desire to fill silences, used to distract Montagne from his thoughts as if he were afraid of what was going on in the Frenchman’s head. Now, he sits, listens to the water dripping and drumming. “What are you drinking?”, he wants to know eventually and this question is a lot easier to answer than the ones Montagne anticipated.

“Marc de Beaujolais”, he says and willingly hands the small glass over when Tachanka reaches out. There was a time where Tachanka would’ve downed the contents in one go, grimaced and then complained about the taste just to mess with him, just to break out into booming laughter and refuse to offer to get Montagne more. The playfulness between them has faded, however, there’s a distance between them, born of respect and the things Montagne said that he cannot unsay. The Russian sniffs at the clear liquid, turning the glass a little, and then hands it back with an unimpressed scowl. “It’s not for everyone”, Montagne smiles, “I haven’t had it in years. It’s Cathérine’s favourite.”

The name sparks no ill will on Tachanka's face, not anymore. She was never his rival, the divorce had been the end of her and Montagne’s relationship after all and though they were still on good terms, talked regularly, she herself never stood in the way. It was the idea of telling her about Tachanka, having to tell their daughters, exposing this side of himself that filled him with dread, made him recoil. He wasn’t comfortable with himself, had to fight the idea that his life had been a lie up to that point a year ago. It wasn’t a good environment for something as unstoppable, sensual, overbearing as Tachanka.

He misses him. There’s no sugar coating it, Montagne misses him, the lazy kisses in the morning, the neverending innuendos, the company, the carnal side of it all – his entire home, his shower, his sofa, his bed, they all whisper of panting breaths, tight embraces, muffled moans, distracted, affectionate gestures. The months that seem endless in his head were staggeringly intense and shook him to his core. Maybe that is also why he felt the need to put an end to it: it was too much, he wasn’t prepared, lost his footing and wasn’t confident Tachanka could catch him if he fell. Tachanka never does anything half-heartedly and his confidence and devotion made Montagne feel like an impostor, as if he was leading him on. He didn’t allow himself to commit.

He regrets it.

The realisation feels like a punch to his stomach and he can’t breathe for a second, forgot how, almost breaks the delicate glass between his fingers. He thought about meeting with him, a few times, to see whether they could form a tentative friendship but ultimately didn’t for a number of reasons. Fearing that he’d come to this conclusion was one of them. They’ve moved on, asking for a second chance would be selfish, inappropriate, maybe even insulting. Tachanka accepted his decision and so should _he_.

“It’s fucking unbelievable how much the old bastard can drink”, Tachanka speaks up and Montagne knows exactly what he’s doing: giving him an out, an excuse to partake in small talk and then go back to the party, no harm done, no hard feelings, hardly any feelings at all. He hates that the Russian deems this necessary, assumes Montagne feels uncomfortable in his presence. Hates that he’s probably right. The rain has lessened, the noise of it allowing for his thoughts to clear up a little.

“Yes”, he agrees and looks back to the large house that seems more and more appealing, like a distraction. “I should probably go -”

“I’m sleeping in the guest room downstairs.” He announces it matter-of-factly and so it takes Montagne a moment to parse this information. “But yes, let’s go back.”

His mind staggers. Was that – he’s floored, watches as Tachanka gets up and turns away but it was definitely – it was an invitation, no? So that means –

“Wait”, he says hurriedly.

They’re both motionless but it doesn’t feel that way to Montagne, to him Tachanka is sliding away, out of his grasp, inevitably gone if he doesn’t do _something_. He thought he’d lost him already, thought he’d drifted away and is astonished to find his hands still holding on to his body. There is a chance. He thinks of teasing remarks, crude humour, unapologetic touches, blunt honesty and what he once perceived as threatening has always been his heart’s desire, he realises now, how was he so blind. He can almost feel Tachanka's skin between his fingers and so he tightens his grip and _pulls_.

The glass shatters on the floor, splashes its contents over the wooden planks and is immediately forgotten as Montagne’s breath mixes with Tachanka's, their bodies melting into each other and their lips touching, gently at first. The shards crunch under Montagne’s shoes and it’s extremely satisfying, feels almost as good as the strong arms encircling his torso. Reciprocating his tight hold.

He didn’t think he deserved a second chance. But he’s boundlessly grateful that Tachanka does.

  
  


**2.1** Bandit/Doc

 

The dull bass beat thrums through the writhing mass of bodies, the dim lighting meant to evoke an atmosphere of secrecy, aiming to lower inhibitions and hide unsavoury details like skin blemishes, certain exchanges of goods, wandering hands. There are only a few places that are lit up properly, displaying their occupants who undoubtedly wish to be seen in full view, sprawling and lounging, expensive shirts, loose tops and tight skirts. It’s no coincidence he’s chosen one of them as his throne, leaning against a table so he doesn’t tower over the short girl by his side, his hand buried in her hair and his lips whispering things into her neck while she laughs and clings to him like a parasite. She’s too young but can’t be faulted, not with the way his trousers hang on his hips, his smile a predatory thing, his movements confident and casual.

As Doc approaches, dark eyes glide over to him, fixing him with a mesmerising stare that never fully lost its appeal nor the unspoken threat in it, the warning. It’s uncomfortably humid, the loud cacophony he refuses to call music is slowly eroding his eardrums and the entire place looks fake to him, edgy, more of a cliché than an actual club where people might want to go. The relief he feels outweighs his disapproval though, at least momentarily. He stops next to the intertwined figures, returns the gaze unblinking, notices how the otherwise beautiful dark brown irises are almost wholly swallowed by blackness, leaving only a thin halo behind.

“Look who decided to join us”, Bandit mumbles against tanned skin, his nose in the blonde strands but his attention solely on Doc.

“Is this your dad?”, she asks disdainfully, grimaces as she gives him a once over. He supposes he sticks out in his casual clothing but he didn’t come here for fun anyway.

“Worse”, says Bandit with a grin, “that’s my daddy.” The young woman turns to him sharply, brows drawn together. “You up for a ménage à trois, babe? He’s got a big dick that’s gonna feel heavenly, trust me, and I can have a go at that tight ass of yours.” He pinches said part of her body and, predictably, she pulls back, tries to slap him, curses him out and stomps away, her calves dangerously wobbly on her heels. Bandit just laughs after her, probably doesn’t even know her name, rubs his nose and instantly stops when he remembers Doc’s presence. Not like it wasn’t glaringly obvious already. “Wanna dance?” His smile is half-hearted now, he knows the fun is over.

“Let’s go”, Doc says simply and feels vague pride at the defeat in Bandit’s stance, the way he heads for the exit all by himself, doesn’t run, doesn’t yell – not like last time. He refuses to let his guard down, however, he knows it’s not over. For now, Bandit rebels harmlessly, steals someone’s tequila shot on the way out and makes Doc pay for it to avoid a fight, tells the cabbie the address of a strip club, preens and shows off his body without ever touching Doc, evading his hands where he usually actively seeks physical contact. It won’t be long until his anger bubbles to the surface, right now he’s a jaguar pacing and looking for the right moment to tear into Doc’s flesh.

He insists he’s not hungry but they stop by at a pizzeria regardless where Bandit makes him wait by striking up a conversation with the owner, all easy laughs, understanding nods and crude jokes, oozing charisma and wit as if he wants to show Doc who’s in charge, that he’s voluntarily coming with him. Maybe also that he’s better off like this. It won’t last long.

His attitude abruptly shifts after they’ve entered the hotel room Doc has booked for the night, already expecting the whole situation, and it’s like flicking a switch. First it’s sweet, impatience coupled with intense longing, he said before that pretty much everything gets him horny, even alcohol, but then he turns into an animal, rips clothes, scratches and bites, draws blood when Doc refuses to give in and he’s _strong_ , fuelled by desperation, insecurity, guilt. _Look at me_ , his kicks and punches scream, _do you still care? How much do you care?_

It lasts a while but Doc was prepared and manages to pin him down, let him tire himself out trying to escape, thrashing futilely and snarling, spewing out words he doesn’t mean, ugly fragments of the part of his mind which he wanted to escape, terror and loneliness wrapped in barbed wire and insults and violence. By the end both of them are exhausted, panting and empty. He’s crashing, wants and _needs_ to continue the fight but physically can’t. Doc uses the opportunity to search him, dispose of the small bag. When he comes back, Bandit is curled in on himself, hiding his face, merely a shadow of the suave and charming guy who greeted Doc with a conceited smirk after they hadn’t seen each other for three weeks.

Doc sits next to him on the bed, convinces him to drink some water and allows him to crawl into his lap, strokes his hair and wipes away the moisture by his eyes until Bandit dozes off. Doc doesn’t sleep. He waits until he can be sure Bandit won’t wake up, drapes a blanket over him and gets up to do some work. He brought research with him, notes he can pour over and already knows the letters will blur before his eyes, making it impossible to decipher them.

It’s light outside when Bandit stirs, the imprint of a fold in the pillow on his cheek, his hair wild and his face pale. He blinks at his surroundings worriedly, probably had a bad dream that refuses to release him from its claws, warps his perception of reality. Doc watches him silently as he wakes up fully over the course of several minutes, sits up, rubs his face. “Do you need to throw up?” A mute shake of the head. “Did you fuck anyone?” Bandit’s eyes turn haunted. Neither of them have forgotten the previous time he did this, had to be tracked down. “You know I don’t care about that. But get tested.”

“No”, comes the hesitant reply and then the clarification: “I mean no, I didn’t. I tried. It didn’t work.”

He’s glad Bandit is alright. It’s what he’s been repeating in his head all night, uses it to quell his frustration, jealousy, rage. He’s glad. It could be worse. The hurt is there regardless, it hurts but he can’t let it. He allows himself another minute of silence during which they just look at each other, allows reproach to seep into his gaze. He needs this, a tiny outlet before he offers Bandit some of the pizza, joins him in bed for a hug that’s entirely for Bandit’s benefit. He’s furious but can’t let it out, can’t burden him more, knows it will make the crushing weight of Bandit’s conscience unbearable. They need to talk about this and they will – but not right now.

“I was scared”, Bandit says eventually but means three different words, words he’s never uttered out loud yet shows in his own way, “I was so fucking _scared_.”

There were two days of radio silence on Doc’s mission, he’s heard about the turmoil it caused. Bandit had wanted to go with them but wasn’t allowed. Doc returned to an empty house and knew what had happened, knew Bandit couldn’t deal with the stress itching under his skin. He’s glad Bandit is alright and hearing those words he said and the ones he _didn’t_ say soothes something inside him. “Me too”, he replies sincerely to both and he can see that Bandit understands because he’s suddenly able to breathe freely again.

  
  


**2.2** Bandit/Doc

 

A crash distracts Doc from the medical records over which he’s been poring for the last half an hour without really seeing them. There’s a lot on his mind recently, Finka’s physical condition never stops worrying him, Lion’s presence constantly nags at the back of his head – and this is leaving aside the whole tragedy that was Truth or Consequences, so many lives lost and ultimately so little insight gained. He much prefers staying up so late that he passes out as soon as his head touches his pillow over lying awake and allowing his thoughts to run rampant. However, it seems someone else is still awake at this hour, noisily making their way through the corridor, causing another loud smash that sounds painful followed by a muffled curse that gives away the person’s identity.

Of course.

Doc pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a long-suffering sigh, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable. Someone runs against the closed door to his office and he’s pretty sure he heard the _thunk_ of someone’s head meeting the wood. For a few seconds, there’s nothing but foreboding silence, then the door swings open almost comically slow and quiet compared to the previous ruckus, revealing no other than Bandit, looking dishevelled, rained on but joyous nonetheless. Slightly _too_ joyous. “I missed the handle”, he informs Doc and points stupidly at the door and alright, that explains everything.

“You’re drunk”, Doc retorts neutrally and resists the urge to start massaging his temples. Babysitting Bandit was not how he saw the rest of his night going.

“I’m not”, comes the immediate objection and Bandit slams the door shut behind him with a little too much force, “I’m not wasted, just… a little. I’m not drunk, promise.”

He smells of grass for some reason, like nature itself, vibrant and vivid – he might’ve rolled around in the dirt a little right before it started raining. “Can you tell the time?”, Doc asks and indicates the clock on the wall not because he expects to gain any insight from the answer – the way Bandit’s tongue seems too heavy for his mouth and his accent much thicker than usual belies his words.

Bandit nods emphatically, turns towards the clock and addresses it almost accusingly: “I said I’m _not drunk_!”

Despite everything, Doc snorts, can’t help but allow it to evolve into laughter and finds it even harder to stop when Bandit joins in, giggles maniacally and plops down on the visitor’s chair in front of his desk. It’s a lovely sensation to laugh again, relieving and much needed and when he looks at Bandit again, it’s with much more goodwill. “Shouldn’t you be out with the others? What happened to them?”, he wants to know softly and instantly regrets giving Bandit the benefit of the doubt when he lets out an impressive belch.

“Fucked off, no idea. Maybe they told me they were leaving. I don’t actually remember.” He leans over the desk with an expression that probably aims to be conspiratorial yet lands somewhere between deranged and high. “But there’s a reason I’m here.”

Since he now can smell the alcohol on his breath, Doc opts to get up and fetch a glass of water instead. “Is that so? Do I even want to know?”

“Yes”, Bandit replies simply and eyes the proffered glass confusedly as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. For a few seconds, they’re at an impasse since the water somehow hypnotised the German to the point of dazed silence and Doc uses the moment to inspect him more closely. His casual attire is questionable at best, his t-shirt proudly displaying the logo of a kid’s show for which Bandit is decidedly too old and he somehow looks like he needs a hug. Doc has no other explanation for his late visit as he himself isn’t known to be particularly interested in partying or even just relaxing really, he usually can’t afford to.

Eventually, Bandit downs the water in one go and almost sets the glass down in the air right next to the desk. “I’ve come here to convince you to make out with me.” The proclamation is followed with a stubborn lift of his chin – he’s obviously expecting heavy resistance.

“Oh?”, makes Doc and sinks back into his comfortable office chair. It’s not a surprise, not _really_ , not after all the weeks of Bandit trying to wear him down, flirting with him so backhandedly it was a monumental task to identify the compliments amidst the thinly veiled insults, constantly distracting him with grabby hands and innuendos and steadfastly refusing to leave his side at times. He noticed it did get especially bad around the time T or C happened, has continued ever since they returned and though it’s a welcome distraction, he’s left bemused by the insistence Bandit displays.

He’d be lying if he claimed he hasn’t thought about it. For some reason, Bandit is almost docile around him, respects his opinion and listens to most of what he says. It’s almost cute even if everything inside him shudders at the thought of uttering _cute_ and _Bandit_ in the same sentence. “I imagine you have some incontestable arguments prepared then?”

Bandit blinks at him, stupefied. “I uh”, he says. “Well, to be honest I thought you’d throw me out at this point. But I bet I can think of some.” Doc chuckles again and yes, in an extremely weird way, it’s endearing. “First of all, because I want to. That’s my main, uh, point. Because, you know, you should care about me and what I want and -”

On an impulse, Doc leans forward, notices how Bandit trails off with wide eyes, watching incredulously as Doc’s face comes closer and closer and then their lips touch. It’s entirely unimpressive, Bandit is apparently too shocked to reciprocate yet manages a whimper when Doc licks along his upper lip before he withdraws again. He thoroughly relishes in the dumb look on Bandit’s face and smiles. “Okay”, he says sweetly, “there you go. Anything else?”

Momentary silence, then: “I mean, my next plan is to convince you to do it _again_ because clearly, this was -”

This time it’s much more satisfying though Bandit still struggles to catch up, chases Doc’s lips with his own and moans shamelessly into his mouth, licking and sucking at everything he reaches and even going so far as to basically climb on the desk separating them just to prolong the kiss a little longer. They’re both breathless when they part. “Holy shit”, says Bandit and seems lost to the world for the moment.

“Your next plan?”

“ _Fuck_ ”, he curses once more with feeling and Doc just grins.

“Alright. Sounds good.” And as Bandit’s eyes widen in disbelief, Doc wonders whether he’s just found a better alternative for ensuring restful sleep for himself.

  
  


**2.3** Lesion/Echo

 

It’s possible to deduce so much just from observing a person’s body language, the way they angle their body either away from or towards others, point their feet in the direction they’d rather be in – somewhere else or closer to someone – their fingers fidgeting or resting or touching parts of their own body. Echo’s body language is extremely easy to read after having watched him for a while: he shifts his weight when he’s uncomfortable, gestures a lot when he’s excited, messes with his hair when he’s embarrassed. The last one is particularly endearing because he pulls on one strand repeatedly until it sticks out and then forgets about it, walks around with it like a small horn all day or until he comes across a mirror where he then quickly fixes it. If someone makes a remark about it, he gets self-conscious, starts fiddling with his hair again and the cycle begins anew.

Right now, he’s vaguely angry and frustrated, shaking his head at Dokkaebi whose gleeful grin promises trouble, and Lesion guesses he’s going to cross his arms next – yes, there it is, accompanied by him leaning back on the bench and furrowing his brows. They’re taking a break from training, eating lunch out in the sun and comfortably lazy for the moment, most of them glad for the brief respite. Dokkaebi seems to have it out for the Japanese operator though, hovering over him like a mosquito waiting for the perfect opportunity to sting.

“Did you hear what I just said?”, a female voice next to him catches his attention and he turns to Hibana, smiling brightly.

“Yes”, he replies.

“No”, says Hibana and eyes him, unimpressed.

“No”, he agrees apologetically. “I’m sorry, I was distracted. Could you repeat?”

A quick motion he catches out of the corner of his eye makes him look over once more. Dokkaebi has somehow got her hands on Echo’s phone and is dancing around him as he attempts to steal it back, cackling and stabbing at the display with a fingertip as he futilely grabs for it. Next to Lesion, Hibana _sighs_ , but he can’t tear his eyes away from Echo’s lithe body that moves fluidly, mesmerising, until the Korean woman says something and he freezes. As he stands there, petrified, there’s a small vibration in Lesion’s pocket, alerting him to a new message. He spits out the toothpick on which he was chewing and throws Hibana a meaningful glance. This should be interesting.

Only a heartbeat later, Echo rushes towards them, face growing redder by the second. “I need your phone for a moment”, he announces and sticks out his hand expectantly.

Lesion examines it curiously. “You have your own.”

“No, I mean”, Echo’s blush deepens, “it won’t take long, I just need to…” He trails off, notices Lesion’s highly amused expression and gives up on convincing him, leans over and starts patting down the sides of his trousers aggressively, pointedly ignoring Dokkaebi’s laughter in the background.

“You’re almost there”, Lesion tells him politely, “it’s more in the middle.”

Echo ignores his comment and stands up straight again. “Don’t you have it on you?”

“I do. It’s in my back pocket.”

The implication of this does nothing to shake Echo’s determination. Without hesitation, he grabs and pulls Lesion up, reaches around him with both hands to access said pockets but ends up trapped when Lesion unceremoniously wraps his arms around him, effectively catching him and his arms in an entirely involuntary hug against which Echo immediately struggles. He should’ve seen this coming from a mile away and Hibana looks about as disbelieving about this development as Lesion feels. Not that he’s complaining about being pressed against Echo’s muscled chest, his body warm and smelling heavenly, a mixture of sweat, sun and faint deodorant.

“Let me _go_!”, Echo demands angrily, fighting against the embrace and still trying to nick Lesion’s phone as he attempts to escape.

“Stop fondling my ass first.” The struggling ceases _immediately_ , as do the insistent hands on his backside. “Okay. Now we hug it out and you tell me what’s up.”

With a defeated sigh, Echo accepts his fate and half-heartedly returns the hug with how little leeway his arms are given. “Dokk sent you something from my phone that should _not_ be in your possession and I want to delete it before you see it”, he explains quietly but obviously still loud enough for Hibana to hear because when hers and Lesion’s gazes lock, both of them lift a sceptical eyebrow.

“Alright. I’ll give you my phone for a kiss.” He enjoys the momentary calm before the storm, rests his chin on Echo’s shoulder and snuggles a bit closer so he can contain him when he inevitably blows up.

“No _fucking_ way!” This time, despite Lesion’s best efforts, he manages to break free and even somehow has Lesion’s phone in hand, turning to sprint away but is instantly tripped by Hibana who throws Lesion another _is he serious_ glance before he drops down and straddles Echo’s hips, pinning him and purposefully pressing his ass right into Echo’s crotch. “Get _off_!”

“I can’t, I’d need a little more than just this”, Lesion responds cheerily and plucks the rectangle out of Echo’s grasp once more as the Japanese operator glares at him. “Come on. One kiss and I’ll let you delete your nude without me ever seeing it.”

“It’s not a -” Echo shuts up as soon as he realises that no one would believe his denial and regains the pretty blush covering his cheeks. “Are you for real?”

“Just a peck”, Lesion reassures him sincerely and has to suppress a grin at the conflict on Echo's face. “I promise. You could also fight me for it but previous attempts have shown that you're no match for me.”

“No need to remind me.” The scowl is _fierce_ and absolutely endearing. “Alright then. Do your worst. And you _promised_.”

It'd be the perfect opportunity – not only is Echo willing (to an extent), he's also worryingly attractive right now, lying on his back between Lesion's legs, blinking up at him, dismayed and expectant at the same time. It's _tempting_. Lesion bends down until their faces are uncomfortably close, their breath mingling, their eyes staring into each other. His free hand comes to rest on Echo's cheek, gently cupping his face, his thumb softly touching the corner of his mouth and Echo's eyes flutter closed. The sight is tantalising and Lesion subconsciously grinds his hips down a little which makes Echo's lips _part_ and their noses brush and he wants to kiss him so _badly_ his heart hurts.

It takes all of his willpower not to give in, not to simply bridge the few centimetres that separate them and press his lips to Echo's inviting, rosy, soft ones. Instead, he moves to the side and plants a quick kiss on his cheekbone, sits back up and smiles smugly as Echo’s eyes snap open again, the realisation setting in that his body language clearly gave off inviting signals completely at odds with his words. “Here you go”, Lesion says and hands Echo the object that sparked all this.

“You need to unlock it”, Echo replies, visibly embarrassed and beet red.

“I bet this is not the last time you’ll ask for my finger.”

“ _Shut up_. Why is my name – oh my _God_.” When Echo returns the phone, he’s changed his name in Lesion’s contacts from _Masaru_ _♥_ to _Your worst nightmare_. “Now get off me.”

Lesion and Hibana watch him angrily stalk away to say a few choice words to Dokkaebi, the female operator’s expression pensive, Lesion’s amused. “That was nice of you”, she states, slightly surprised, “you could’ve blackmailed him with it.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame”, he agrees with a sigh. “But I’m hoping that one day, he’ll send me pictures like that intentionally.”

  
  


**2.4** Bandit/Jäger

 

“Dom.”

He pauses halfway to the door, cigarette between his lips, lighter already in hand, and turns back to Jäger who’s looking at him weirdly, stretched out on his bed, head propped up and still very much naked. “Yeah?”, he mumbles around this object in his mouth.

“Elias isn’t here today.”

The way he says it implies there’s _something_ Bandit is supposed to be taking from it yet he has no idea what. “I know. What, you want me to throw some pushpins into his bed for when he comes back?”

Now Jäger is frowning. Apparently that wasn’t the right thing to say – recently most of what comes out of Bandit’s mouth isn’t the right thing to say though he has a hard time figuring out why some of it fine and other things are not. “No”, Jäger says slowly and sounds suspiciously like the time he explained to Smoke why throwing ten live frag grenades at one of his magpies is a bad idea, “I thought since no one is there to see, you could stay the night.”

Oh, that’s where he’s going with this. Bandit feels irritation rise up inside him, decides to be obnoxious about it, takes the cigarette out and indicates Blitz’ bed. “And sleep in there? Why?”

His question warrants an eye roll. “Just come back to bed. I want to sleep next to you.”

“Why?”, he asks curiously because it’s fucking adorable when Jäger gets all bitchy and indignant and pretends to be mad at him though both of them know that’s impossible. Right now however, all he can tease out of him is a serious case of resting bitch face and an unimpressed glare that’s so far away from being intimidating that Bandit almost laughs. To him, Jäger looks like a small puppy with drawn-on angry eyebrows. “I don’t fucking cuddle. You know that.”

“Just suck it up and do me a favour for once. We don’t normally get the opportunity, so take your clothes off and come back.” Bandit makes a show out of sighing dramatically as he undresses as lethargically as possible, waves goodbye to his smoke and climbs back into the bed. “We don’t have to cuddle, I just want you there”, Jäger tells him audibly satisfied and wraps around him without hesitation _anyway_ , exposing him as the worst kind of hypocrite. His embrace feels vaguely suffocating.

“I can’t sleep like this”, Bandit states. He’s genuinely annoyed now and regrets giving in, he’s too hot and Jäger’s gangly limbs are poking him everywhere. “Nothing about this is comfortable.”

“Then don’t fucking sleep.” For some reason, Jäger _also_ doesn’t seem to particularly enjoy this activity because he sounds as pissed off as Bandit feels.

“This is a terrible idea.”

“Oh my God, Dom, shut the fuck up, you’re literally the bitchiest person on the planet.” Bandit is pouting now because there’s _no_ reason for Jäger to be so snippy when he’s doing his best trying to endure this torture, thank you very much, because he _is_ trying but there’s no way he’s going to spend the entire night like this and if Jäger ever asks him to repeat – “Stop it.”

“I don’t even know what you want me to stop. All I was doing was _thinking_ and thought crime isn’t a thing.”

“You’re huffing and you look like you bit into a lemon. Or like you want to strangle me.”

“Again, can’t charge me with thought crime.”

“Okay, then let’s switch positions.” By that, Jäger must mean _let’s elbow Dom in the ribs_ since that’s what he ends up doing and they’re both fed up now so instead of merely moving a little, they end up in a proper pillow fight during which they almost fall out of the bed, Jäger gets the air knocked out of him twice and Bandit discovers his partner is actually extremely ticklish. They struggle for dominance and giggle like brain amputated idiots until Jäger somehow ends up straddling him, breathing hard and staring down at him with an intense gaze that Bandit knows all too well.

“You wanna go again?”, he asks softly and Jäger just nods. He lubes up Bandit’s cock that somehow got hard during all this and sinks down on it, looking blissful and beautiful and maybe this was his plan all along – irritate Bandit to the point where they end up having angry sex. Though now that he knows, he’s determined to throw a wrench into his plan, flips them around and fucks him gently instead, thrusts slow but deep and sucks on his collarbone while Jäger desperately clings to him and moans quietly. It’s very unlike what they usually do, almost painfully intimate and weirdly deliberate, not just letting off steam.

Afterwards, they have to clean up _again_ and Bandit complains the entire time until Jäger tells him to smoke a fucking cigarette by the window, so he does, feeling comfortably relaxed and sated despite all his protests. When he’s done, he returns to the bed of his own volition and Jäger lights up like a Christmas tree when he does, once again embracing him entirely too tightly.

“You could’ve said that all you wanted was another round”, Bandit informs him grumpily.

“I would’ve been content with just this but I’m not complaining. Unlike you.” Exhaustion is quickly spreading through his body, weighing down his bones and making his eyes fall shut. He always sleeps better after sex and might even be able to ignore the extremely uncomfortable position they’re in, even if Jäger is clutching him like he’s drowning. “Let’s try something out. Lie on your side.”

They move around a bit until Jäger is melted against his back, planting affectionate butterfly kisses on the back of his neck and stroking over his midsection and… this is nice. It’s actually quite pleasant, Bandit feels safe, his legs have enough space and his shoulder isn’t getting crushed anymore. He could probably sleep like this. The heat is still a problem but if that’s all he has to tolerate to enjoy Jäger’s loving touches and the way he’s nuzzling his shoulder with his nose now and then, it seems like a reasonable trade.

Then, something about the whole situation occurs to him. “If you tell people I prefer being the little spoon, I’m going to make you suffer”, he mumbles and the sleepiness in his voice undoubtedly diminishes the threat because all Jäger does is laugh softly.

“I have no idea why I even love you”, he replies and his mind must also be muddled from tiredness if he says something like _that_ without immediately panicking and trying to take it back or twist it into something harmless, like he usually does.

Bandit is suddenly grateful Jäger can’t see his face. The stupid, dopey grin on it would definitely give him away.

  
  


**2.5** Montagne/Rook

 

The door falls shut with a final sounding click, blocking out the rest of the world and symbolising peace and quiet, shelter from the toils of everyday life. Montagne has always strived towards building a home that’s more than just a place where he happens to sleep; he hangs up photos, lays out carpets, adds small details here and there to make it cosy, inviting, welcoming. He stocks the fridge and never runs out of comfort food even if he rarely needs it, tidies religiously and collects blankets and pillows. He looks forward to coming home, unwinding and enjoying the calmness despite the fact he’s living almost in the middle of nowhere, can only contact friends virtually and spends entirely too much time on the job.

Despite the fact that there’s someone sharing his abode.

The dirty boots in the hallway unmistakably betray Rook’s presence since he never leaves the house without them and Montagne suppresses the urge to sigh. It’s really not – he _likes_ Rook. He really does, he’s a good kid, fantastic shot, great team player, upbeat and optimistic but sometimes a little too much. Sometimes, all Montagne wants to do is curl up on the sofa and watch terrible TV shows yet Rook drags him outside to buy takeout or see a film or just meet up with some of the other operators. However, it’s not just that. It’s that Rook is also… relentlessly gay.

There’s hardly any other way to put it. He manages to chat up more guys on a weekend than Montagne can count and he even brings them back to their shared flat sometimes. Now, Montagne never had much contact with people like _him_ , admittedly, he might be biased in his old-fashioned views, has even been called conservative (and stuck-up once) yet he fancies himself reasonably open-minded, relishes contact with others from all over the world, strives to broaden his horizon. But this neverending parade of young men in his home is something he will probably never get used to. He tried talking with Rook about it before to no avail, prompted smirks and lifted eyebrows, the reassurance that he’s using protection and not much more.

Montagne isn’t homophobic. He knows he isn’t. Yet _something_ reacts with disdain upon seeing more and more unfamiliar faces in Rook’s presence, something he can’t put his finger on, twists his insides and probably shows in his expression, judging by the wary gazes coming from Rook’s _acquaintances_.

He takes off his coat and shoes, checks the living room and the kitchen, throws a glance into Rook’s empty room and frowns. He’s not in the bathroom either, the door is ajar and the light turned off. Curious, he walks to his bedroom, grabs the handle and pushes the door open the exact moment he hears a muffled gasp from within but he’s already committed to the motion now and so there’s no stopping even as his brain processes the very first glimpse he catches of naked skin and the silhouette of someone sitting on his bed.

Montagne forgets to breathe just like his heart forgets to beat and he mutely stares at Rook, shamelessly sprawling on his clean covers, hand moving slower now but never once stopping. “Hey”, Rook greets him casually with an easy grin and a meaningful tone of voice.

“What are you doing?”, the older Frenchman asks idiotically because it’s _obvious_ what he’s doing, better questions would’ve been why and why here and why now.

“Imagining this is your hand.”

His mouth goes dry and he can’t help it, his eyes glide downwards and watch the lazy movements, transfixed, the slight twist to the wrist, a thumb swiping over reddened skin and Rook preens under his gaze, leans back to grant him a better view, arches his back. “No”, he says before he even knows to what he’s objecting, shakes his head, tries to bring this, _this_ into the context of him returning home just like any other day and then suddenly – “Julien, stop. What is this?”

“Oh, you want to do it yourself?” His hand finally stills but it’s not much of a solace seeing as there’s still movement between his loose fingers, a twitch, another one, clearly eager and primed. Begging to be encased in Montagne’s –

“No. Get dressed and leave.” He’s proud of how stern his voice sounds though his composure crumbles at the way Rook’s lips curl into a grin.

“I don’t think you want me to do that.” He’s massaging now, sensual motions that make his abs tense and him gasp.

“Julien, I’m not one of your many sex buddies, don’t insult me -”

“I know you’re not, but the only difference is that I’ve fucked them and not you. Yet.” He bites his lip and tightens his grip again. “So, would you like me to?”

This is outrageous. How dare he – Montagne is filled with righteous indignation at the _nerve_ , Rook knows he’s not interested in men, he never once gave any indication and what is he _thinking_ –

“Don’t think I don’t see you.” He throws his head back and groans, exposing the long line of his throat and flexing his muscled thighs. “Do you need me to say it out loud?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”, Montagne replies angrily. He’s getting tired of whatever game Rook thinks he’s playing.

“My underwear goes missing. I know you’ve been in my room when I’m not home so I thought I’d return the favour. You’re not good at cleaning up after yourself, you know that?”

“What you’re insinuating is entirely -”

“I also found the camera.” Montagne’s mouth snaps shut. His knuckles go white where he’s still holding onto the door handle. Rook offers a breathy laugh and pauses once more. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind. But stop being a fucking coward, Gilles.”

He’s not a coward, never has been, it’s the one thing he refuses to be. So this leaves him but one choice. With grim determination, he pushes the door closed, shuts the voice up that still screams at him to deny, and witnesses Rook’s grin widen in anticipation.

  
  


**2.6** Thatcher/Jäger

 

So far, Jäger’s day couldn’t have gotten better. He managed to snatch the last cup of fresh coffee in the morning, successfully evaded a few disagreeable responsibilities and is now reassembling his rifle after having cleaned it out in the open. The weather is lovely, mild with blinding sunshine and Jäger’s heart rejoices at the peace and quiet he so rarely gets to enjoy these days. There’s a specific _reason_ as to why he’s chosen this spot, comparatively remote behind one of the many SAS buildings, but said reason is off duty today and probably busy with more important things – yet you can never be too careful.

His trusty carbine clicks back into place in his hands and he’s about to switch to his pistol when a sudden feeling of unspeakable dread overcomes him, like an icy hand grabbing his heart, his stomach sinking. It can’t be. He was so careful in sneaking out, didn’t leave a trace, sought out a half-hidden corner and how would he even _find_ him here -

“Oh, there you are, Jäger. I was wondering if you have a moment to help me.”

There are a few possible explanations: he’s using his ties to the SAS to access surveillance and find out where Jäger went. He followed him immediately and, like a total creep, secretly watched him for the last hour. Or: he’s genuinely able to sniff Jäger out like a bloodhound which is a _terrifying_ thought and he attempts to school his expression into something that doesn’t betray the trepidation he feels when he turns around to face his personal nightmare. “Hey, Thatcher”, he says as neutrally as possible.

The old git eyes him curiously. “Are you alright, lad? Looking a bit constipated there.”

“I’m fine”, Jäger grits out and extends a hand expectantly, his fears confirmed when Thatcher drops his phone into it. “What’s wrong with it now?”

“I was trying to watch some videos but there’s shit blocking them telling me I suck.”

Okay. That’s already more information than Jäger usually gets so he’s grateful – he relishes every instance where his prompt amounts to more than _there’s blue and I don’t like the blue_ or the ever infamous _the thing doesn’t work so please make it work_. He checks the display and is confronted with one of those pop-up scam messages that inform the user they’ve been reported to the police and have to pay a fine to a suspiciously private-sounding email address. Sighing, he closes it, finds another one and struggles for a moment until he finally manages to kill the tab that keeps producing them. And freezes.

When he slowly looks up from the screen, Thatcher’s face is inscrutable. “Why are you -”

“To look up porridge recipes”, comes the immediate answer and Jäger realises that yes, the question he was about to ask would’ve been exceedingly dumb because _why_ does anyone ever visit porn sites, it’s not like it’s a grand secret. He feels his cheeks warm up nonetheless. It’s not only that, it’s _gay_ porn for some reason and pretty hardcore one at that, the kind of thing Jäger wouldn’t seek out unless he was curious, desperate or drunk.

“Okay, look”, he starts out and pauses momentarily when he properly catches sight of the still image, the one dude in particular who’s getting dicked enthusiastically and looking blissful about it because he reminds him… he reminds him of _himself_. Dear Lord, he’s going to have to look Thatcher in the eye at some point and try not to think too hard about this. “You’re using -” Closing the tab only reveals another one with _the same guy_ and holy hell, there are eleven tabs open in total and his face is burning. He quickly destroys them all and is confronted with more glimpses of naked skin and muscles and admittedly attractive genitals. “You’re using the default browser for which you don’t have an adblocker yet and -”

“Yeah, the videos don’t play on the one you told me to use.”

He steadfastly refuses to return Thatcher’s gaze and replies: “You could try visiting other -”

“But they don’t have that bloke with the nice cock.”

“I’m sure there are others who -”

“Maybe, but he always cries when he gets bent over the -”

“Please, I don’t need to know -”

“I just noticed, he looks a little like you, don’t you think?”

“ _Thatcher!_ ”, Jäger snaps and finally musters up the courage to glare at the bastard whose eyes are alight with mirth, an amused smile starting to show in the corners of his mouth. He’s entirely too cheerful for someone whose dirtiest secrets have just been revealed and this is when Jäger understands. His mortification morphs into a mix of disbelief and indignation. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“Have been the entire time”, Thatcher gleefully confirms and laughs at his dumbfounded expression, “did you really think I was this daft?” There’s no polite way of answering, so Jäger opts for staring at him in mute horror. He remembers with vivid clarity how the entire affair came about, Thatcher complaining about his phone being slow and Jäger, immediately assuming the old fart’s incompetence at every technology invented after the 80s, offered to help, starting his troubleshooting at the beginning with the admittedly vaguely disrespectful _have you tried turning it off and on again_. Looking back, it’s possible that he was a little condescending. Or even quite a bit.

So yes. Maybe he deserved this.

With a sigh, he hands the phone back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect, I was just -”

“No hard feelings, lad.” Thatcher pockets the object that caused Jäger a few headaches in the past and grins at him good-naturedly. “You should’ve seen your face.”

A thought occurs to him. “How did you even manage to find a dude who looks like me?”

“Oh, that’s just my normal wank material.” And with a last wink, Thatcher turns around and stalks off, whistling to himself and leaving Jäger staring after him, speechless.

  
  


**2.7** Kapkan/Glaz

 

His movements are what gets to Kapkan the most. He’s seen him squeeze the trigger, end the lives of countless men, efficiently stab and gut people, just like he’s seen him engaged in deep conversation, giving advice, recounting childhood memories, seen him sleeping and eating and lost in thought, fidgeting, smiling secretly at a funny remark he overheard. Yet in all the time they’ve known each other, he’s never seen him paint. Of course he’s come across some of his paintings before, noticed his paint-spattered hands when he got too much into it, stared after him when he returned from one of his sessions, bright eyes and visibly calmer. His art doesn’t speak to Kapkan, it’s too abstract and shapeless, though he has to admit he admires the colours, the playfulness.

Glaz’ hands are moving to their own rhythm, fluid and confident, then there’s a sudden interruption, maybe a change of his brush, and it’s back to elegant flourishes and precise swipes. The longer Kapkan watches, the more he realises there’s method in his madness. The longer he watches, the more beautiful it becomes.

He steps out of the doorway, approaches the bench on which his teammate is perched while making no effort to be quiet, nods curtly when Glaz briefly turns to him to see who it is and takes a seat beside him. It’s early morning and the sparse grass is sprinkled with dew, the base enshrouded in a thin mist. “What are you painting?”, he asks and feels his knees go weak as soon as the full force of Glaz’ smile is turned on him – a fiercely gorgeous thing, oblivious, open and so vulnerable Kapkan wants to hide it from the world. This was a mistake, he’s slipping deeper into thoughts better kept to himself and best not formulated in the first place.

“How I feel when I wake up”, Glaz answers readily and there’s a myriad of possible answers, most of them hurtful jokes or light-hearted jests, resulting in a chuckle or a roll of eyes but none of them feel appropriate. Because even with how little Kapkan understands both the drive to paint as well as the subject matter, the fact that he was deemed worthy of an honest answer instead of a self-deprecating or even mocking one makes him lose all motivation to joke around – it’s respect that silences him and he knows it’s mutual since Glaz undoubtedly would’ve answered differently if it had been Fuze or Tachanka.

All that Kapkan can create is death. He’s tried extensively, strived to find something, anything that was worthwhile and made for his blood-coated fingers but remained unsuccessful. Glaz’ ability to _produce_ instead of destroy suddenly feels precious. “Can you teach me?”, he blurts out before he can stop himself and the sniper halts, lowers his brush. “Maybe a little. I know you went to art school and there’s no way you could cover all that in five minutes, I know that, but I was just thinking -”

He’s starting to rant and in response, Glaz’ eyes twinkle. “Sure”, he replies softly, “I can teach you a little about drawing, if you want.”

“Yes.” Kapkan nods eagerly and accepts the sketchbook and pencil Glaz hands him, flips through the pages and hopes it doesn’t show on his face how impressed he is. It’s mostly doodles from the looks of it, parts of their base, operators draped over couches or each other, standing up taking aim, a few seemingly random motifs thrown in there. They’re more realistic than Glaz’ paintings and show off his skill better than the vague shapes on his canvas – at least that’s Kapkan’s opinion.

At first, Glaz tells him to draw boxes, simple geometrical shapes from different perspectives, but Kapkan quickly gets bored and so Glaz switches to basic anatomy, proportions, sketches a few basic models while he explains, completely absorbed in his task and the familiarity of the subject, his words precise and Kapkan catches none of them. Not a single one, not past the point where Glaz’ attention shifts to the paper entirely because that’s when Kapkan opts to just stare at him openly. It seems to last an eternity, the pencil lead continuously travelling over the paper, leaving trails that carry meaning inescapably lost on Kapkan while Glaz speaks for longer than ever before, uninterrupted and reminiscent of a time where he was probably surrounded by like-minded people who appreciated the fine arts better than Kapkan ever will.

It feels like waking up when Glaz encourages him to try implementing some of his advice and returns to his own painting. Kapkan eyes the drawings, produced seemingly without any effort, and listlessly attempts to recreate some of them, his lines uncertain, his hold on the pencil tentative. He begins to understand how much work it actually is. “Why don’t you just do drawings?”, he inquires curiously. “You do them so well.”

“I feel that they’re less expressive. There is more to the world than what you can see and I attempt to capture that. I’ve always associated people with colours, did I ever tell you?”

They’re starting to tread into artistic territory that feels vaguely uncomfortable to Kapkan so he just answers non-committally: “I don’t think so.”

“There’s a medical term for it but I don’t remember. It’s an actual thing, don’t look so put-off.” He laughs gently and makes their thighs touch for a moment, soothing some of Kapkan’s scepticism. “That’s why I prefer painting, I can try to express the way I feel and see others on canvas.”

For a while, there’s a busy kind of silence between them as Glaz continues and Kapkan struggles to even draw the simplest of shapes because he’s lost all concentration yet refuses to let it show. A question buzzes around in the back of his head so insistently that it eventually ends up on his tongue. “Which colour am I?” He doesn’t know why it means so much to him, why it was so hard to say it out loud. Why so much depends on the answer. He only knows that it does.

“You’re brown”, Glaz replies absent-mindedly, his focus elsewhere. Kapkan is about to protest because surely, that’s the ugliest colour he could’ve picked – apart maybe from ochre and that’s almost brown anyway –, only his teammate isn’t quite done yet: “The shade depends on the day. Right now, you’re dark, like coffee, sometimes you’re the colour of a deer’s fur or the soft earth you like so much because it muffles footsteps. Or you’re a chestnut that just popped out of its shell.”

Kapkan stares at him, at a loss for words, and notices that Glaz isn’t actually painting anymore, merely appearing busy yet not contributing to the canvas, avoiding his gaze. He can feel his heartbeat sharply all of a sudden, powerful against his ribcage.

“Brown is my favourite colour”, Glaz adds quietly and Kapkan’s hand that previously held the pencil steadily if awkwardly starts to tremble.

  
  


**2.8** Bandit/Glaz

 

If anyone asked, Glaz would’ve said the most dangerous thing that lurks in the corners of the base is boredom. Gun safety is no joke and while most of them can be ridiculously immature at times, they all treat their weapons with respect – so it’s definitely not the variety of rifles, pistols, shotguns, knives and grenades that’s a cause of worry, no. It’s boredom, the mother of all bad ideas, birthing accidents and unsound minds, usually doing more harm than expected, impossible to control or eradicate completely.

But no one asks Glaz and so, as he stands there, eyes burning, hair uncomfortably pasted to his scalp, upper body covered in lime green, fingertips dripping more of the viscous liquid onto the floor, he secretly thinks to himself: _the most dangerous thing here is boredom_. He doesn’t dare speak it for fear of getting some of the paint in his mouth but is handed a piece of cloth a second later with which he wipes his face, allowing him to see again. Bandit isn’t looking much better, the small explosion got them both good, only he’s decidedly more vocal about it, spewing insults and curses at anyone but the person responsible. Which is him.

“If this doesn’t wash out”, Blitz says, “you’re dead men.” He sounds genuinely angry for which Glaz can’t fault him; after all, they _are_ in his quarters that have taken on a distinct light green tint.

“I’m sorry”, Glaz offers and resists the urge to flee and wash the paint off – he’s to blame as well to a certain point, riled Bandit up by attempting to calm him down, wouldn’t leave him alone and made everything worse by trying to defuse the situation.

“That doesn’t help me”, Blitz replies and no, Glaz supposes it doesn’t yet he hopes the sentiment is appreciated since all Bandit is doing is not very constructive either. Other operators are filing in, attracted by the loud noise, and Glaz thinks he can hear the SAS boys hoot when they catch sight of the _extent_ of this disaster. Smoke calls for retaliation, a show of remorse, and it’s an indication of how outraged Blitz really is that he merely clenches his jaw and nods.

 

Bandit is a mystery to Glaz, full of contradictions and so he’s almost given up on trying to figure him out. He’s got days on which he’s malicious, his remarks biting and full of spite, on others he’s withdrawn and almost secretive, on some he’s a joy to be around, motivated and approachable. His moods are usually extreme and tilt quickly, even more when Glaz is around. It’s almost as if he noticed the quiet Russian attempting to decode his behaviour and taking offence to it, becoming even more erratic. It’s also boredom. It gets to Bandit, eats at him like grief would with others, amplifies his antics. Glaz thinks he doesn’t like to be left to his thoughts. He’s almost tame when they’re preparing for a mission.

Blitz has noticed the tension between the two, Glaz’ curious interest and Bandit’s dislike to being studied, there’s no doubt about it because the punishment he chose aims to reconcile them – at least that’s what Glaz assumes is the idea. Blitz made it embarrassing so no one complains too loudly about him being going soft on them though ultimately, what other purpose does memorising and reciting a famous poem from each other’s culture hold but mutual understanding? Bandit mouthed off immediately, calling it stupid and nothing in Russian literature worth learning by heart, complaining about how it’s just what Glaz does in his spare time anyway but Blitz didn’t budge. He set a time and a place and left them to clean up his room which happened in stony silence.

Now, Bandit is lounging on one of the chairs in their meeting room, looking too relaxed for someone who’s about to embarrass himself in front of his colleagues. Most of them came to watch and jeer, populating the other half of the room and waiting for Blitz. When he arrives, he fixes both Glaz and Bandit with a level gaze. “Bandit, you go first.”

“I didn’t do it”, comes the laconic answer. Blitz’ brows draw together. “What, did you _actually_ expect me to – don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure Glaz can provide some artsy-fartsy shit you can jerk off to.” He laughs and it’s no surprise he treats the whole thing as a joke, making their audience boo and Kapkan throw something at him. Bandit thinks himself superior in that he didn’t subject himself to something he deems mortifying. Glaz suppresses a sad smile. It’s childish and immature and entirely fitting.

“Look, you don’t have to -” Blitz is addressing him now, slightly apologetic as if he feels responsible for his teammate’s behaviour, but Glaz only shakes his head.

“I don’t mind”, he says and before anyone else can interrupt, he just starts reciting: “His gaze those bars keep passing is so misted / with tiredness, it can take in nothing more. / He feels as though a thousand bars existed, / and no more world beyond them before. // Those supply-powerful paddings, turning there / in the tiniest of circles, well might be / the dance of forces round a center where / some mighty will stands paralyticly. // Just now and then the pupil’s noiseless shutter / is lifted. – Then an image will indart, / down through the limbs’ intensive stillness flutter, / and end its being in the heart.”

Most of them weren’t paying enough attention to catch it all, the noise level hardly lowered and it’s doubtful that they would’ve appreciated it even if they had listened but it doesn’t matter. Halfway through, Glaz’ eyes travelled and stopped only when they met Bandit’s, locked gazes, bore into him. Despite the commotion that’s still ongoing, there’s silence between them, thick and tangible and painful. There’s no smirk on Bandit’s lips anymore. “ _The Panther_ , by Rilke”, Glaz adds after an eternity has passed and turns back to a stunned-looking Blitz, “I’ve come to like his works a lot and only stumbled over them because of you. So thank you for this opportunity. I learned something and so I don’t consider it wasted time or even a punishment.”

When Bandit storms out, furious, there’s a red hue to his cheeks.

 

It took a while to find him but once he has, Glaz sits down next to him, holds out his hand and accepts the cigarette Bandit wordlessly gives him, lights it with his own lighter and takes a deep drag. Both of them are staring straight ahead. “I’m sorry”, Glaz says quietly.

“You fucking humiliated me”, Bandit shoots back bitterly.

“I think you did that all by yourself, don’t you?” To soften his harsh words, he repeats: “I’m sorry nonetheless. I didn’t mean to.”

“Always, you’re always so fucking _sincere_.”

“And to you, everything is a joke.”

With a shaky sigh, Bandit rubs at his face. “It really isn’t.”

“No”, Glaz agrees, “I suppose not.” Even when Bandit is sitting down, he’s pacing countless circles in his head, fully aware of being caged by whatever demons have taken hold of him. Glaz knows how it feels and he knows that his best option is to merely keep him company. So he chooses to do so, opts for comfortable silence and hopes he can help fend off the boredom. Hopes Bandit will let him.


End file.
